Reflections of Half
by Circular Infinity
Summary: Some chances are simply lost. The Fanelian prince who left to become king is gone and a year later Folken mourns with all that is left. Complete One Shot.


Name: Reflections of Half

Author: Circular Infinity

Series: Fanfiction; Escaflowne

Summary: Some chances are simply lost. The Fanelian prince who left to become king is gone and a year later Folken mourns with all that is left. One Shot.

Category: General/Angst

Rating: PG - for...um... angst. Yes... angst. OK, I suppose it's G.

Spoilers: Folken's backstory.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Escaflowne. This is intended for fun and in no way intended for profit. All copyrights belong to their respective owners.

Author's Note: Folken went off to fight the dragon at age 15, ten years before the series takes place. He also rescues Naria and Eriya ten years ago, but in the flashbacks he looks much more grown up and he has many of his adult characteristics. This story is placed in the time between failing to kill the dragon and saving the cat-girls.

I started this story about a year and a half ago. I never thought I would finish it. It's had a lot of work put into it, and not just by me. Thanks to daharmaster and lothmeldo for their help, comments and general beta.

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_Reflections of Half_

Though the lamp flickers slightly, it illuminates the room, especially the desk where I sit and work, quite well. My left hand cramps from the unfamiliar motions of writing. I switch to my other hand, if I can really call it a hand, and continue. The process is slightly faster, but highly frustrating. The hand I once had formed letters well and reliably, something that I sorely miss. It's just one more thing on a long list of things that I must learn and practice.

In Fanelia my education was considered complete, but here there are thousands of volumes that my knowledge doesn't even begin to touch on. I read as much as I possibly can. Often, I copy sorcerers' scientific journals. I learn the material and practice my penmanship as well. I practice with both hands now. You never know when something will happen to one of them. Occasionally the Emperor gives me other texts to read and I copy them as well. They are often literature or philosophy, but today I am copying a brief overview of the history and customs of the different nations of Gaea. There is so much to learn. I finish Daedalus and turn the page to start on the next country. It is Fanelia. After a moment I carefully place my pen where it won't drip ink on my papers and take the book up with both hands. There is certainly no need to copy this; no real reason to even read it. I already know it all, but it might be interesting to learn an outsider's opinion. After all, that is what I am.

The sketches of the forests, the dragons and the palace are not only beautiful, but surprisingly accurate. I thought I was homesick before. I turn another page to find detailed drawings and explanations of the giant tapestries that line the walls of the palace. One story catches my eye, just as it always has. It is the legend of how a brave samurai killed the dragon, brought back the energist and became king. The story is achingly familiar. Why shouldn't it be? I only prepared for my turn my entire life. The Rite of Succession. The book condemns it as barbaric and pointless, much the way Van had not quite a year ago. _Why'd he kill the dragon? Isn't that mean?_ In truth, I'd never thought about it in that way before then. It was just something I was expected to do. It was to be my quest, my Rite, not just of Succession, but of passage as well. I would fight and defeat the dragon as my father and his father and his father and all the kings of Fanelia had done before me. Failure crossed my mind, but never as a real possibility. It must have occurred to others, though. Before I left I heard the whispers saying that I was too young. I pretended I didn't hear and was determined not to let anything discourage me. Setting out I knew that I would return home and when I did I would become not only a king, but a man as well. Now I could never be either, but neither am I a boy. So much has happened and I do not feel like a boy any longer.

Though I don't know quite how long it has been, I know it has not yet been a year. I have kept better track of the days since I moved from the sanatorium to this suite of rooms. Nine months, almost to the day. Time to grow up.

My gaze falls in a dimly lit corner. The mirror was almost the first thing I noticed when they first gave me these rooms so many months ago. I draped a length of cloth over it on the very first day and haven't removed it since. Almost hesitantly, I walk over to it. The last time I looked at my reflection I was still in Fanelia. I swallow a half laugh. I can't even face myself; why do I still wonder why I can't face my family?

In one swift motion I reach with my clawed hand and pull down the cloth. I know I have changed a great deal, yet somehow I am still not expecting to see a stranger staring back at me.

The most immediate difference is my height. I was already fairly tall, taller than my father had been at this age, but it is a surprise to realize how much I have grown. The mechanical arm no longer looks so ridiculously over-sized. I look down at my hand and experimentally flex the metal fingers. I wonder if I will ever get used to it. I can feel it and feel with it in the sense that I can tell where it is, and if and how I am holding something, but the finer sensations are lost. Both texture and temperature are things of the past. The sorcerers assure me that my dexterity will return in time, but at the moment small tasks like fastening buttons and even writing are difficult, if not beyond me.

I had no choice but to adopt Zaibach style clothing soon after I arrived. They never said exactly what they did with the clothes I was wearing when I left Fanelia, but I assume they had them destroyed in one way or another. I didn't realize it until later, but they gave me the uniform of an officer. It was strange, unlike anything I had ever seen in Fanelia and the leather felt uncomfortable against my ribs as I breathed. Since then it has either grown more comfortable or I have just grown used to it, but I almost like it now. People respect the uniform, if not the person inside it. Just the sight of a sorcerer's cloak will often cause people to quickly step aside in the corridors to let them pass. It already happens to me on occasion, but I can't help thinking that it's not always out of respect. I wonder if the addition of the cloak when I become a sorcerer myself will heighten or change the effect.

Strangely enough, it is my hair that provokes an emotional response. Or at least a new emotion that has not been worn out. I had it cut shorter than it ever had been before and it sticks up strangely now. I find myself amused, and I feel slightly ridiculous, but at least it no longer falls in my eyes.

The tattoos are not the most recent addition, the twin gold earrings are, but I'm not quite sure why I chose either. The tattoos still sting a bit when I touch them, but I almost welcome the pain. It reminds me that I am still real. I tell myself that I look distinguished, but know I just look scared. I try to rid my face of emotion, but only succeed in looking dead. Some days I wonder if I am.

Enough of this. With a sudden motion I half-carelessly drape the cloth once again over the mirror and return to my desk to continue my penmanship. Folken Lacour de Fanel is dead. I am all that is left. Half, and not even a man. I was to be a king. I wanted to be a king. A good king.

Worthy.

Some chances are lost before you can truly begin. I will never be anything but this. Whatever this is. Sometimes, all I want is to be a man.

I pick up my pen and try to being to copy the chapter on Freid, but my hand is even less steady than usual and I cannot concentrate. I can just imagine them now. The court, the samurai, my mother... Van. The idea of Van having to fight a dragon is almost enough to make me find a guymelef and head off toward Fenelia, or even just fly on my own. I know I can't. I must help Van in other ways now. For once time is on my side. They wouldn't send out someone younger than fifteen and they may even wait until he's even older. I can only hope that they won't make the same mistake twice.

Another thing I hope, for Van's sake at least, is that they presume me dead and not the coward that I am. Even if I weren't, how could the people of Fanelia accept a maimed king? Here in Zaibach, where such technical marvels are more commonplace, people still stare. I can never go back. There are some times when you don't have a choice. Some bridges are simply burnt. I died that day. The dragon killed me there in the forest when I failed. Emperor Dornkirk found and resurrected me, but there are parts he couldn't reach. I left my heart in Fanelia.

I reach to dip my pen into the ink, but misjudge the distance. I knock over the inkwell, spilling its contents over the table, my papers and the floor. With something closely resembling a yelp I leap to my feet, snatching up the scientific journals as I do. I am just beginning to wonder exactly what to do next when a soft knock on the door wakens me from my thoughts. I automatically call for them to enter and regret it immediately. My visitor is a messenger who enters and pauses, surveying the mess. I can just imagine how this appears in his eyes. The Fanelian boy, the Emperor's pet, standing in his rooms, clutching at half a dozen journals while ink continues to dribble its way to the floor. I must look like a fool. My emotions get the better of me and I can feel my forehead crease into a frown. The messenger senses my displeasure and quickly relays that Emperor Dornkirk wants to see me right away, but he does not say why. With a slight sigh I tell the messenger that I will be there very shortly and he leaves. I find the Emperor's interest in me strange. I know it is just because I am half draconian, but perhaps I am still worth something to someone after all. Whatever the reason.

Emperor Dornkirk saved my life and I owe him my allegiance. I am a willing student, but I don't do this for Dornkirk, I don't do this for Gaea and I certainly don't do this for me. A world without war? I don't know if such a world is possible, but I know that I want Van to grow up in a place like that. It is a worthy cause. Everyone needs a cause. I have already failed once. Never again.

As I attempt to clean up the mess, I wonder what the Emperor wants of me at this hour in the evening. I hope no sorcerers are there. I dread another run in with them. I'm studying to join their ranks, but a great number of them already dislike me. In Fanelia there was very little political intrigue, but here it suffuses and infects every corner of my life. I hate it. They envy my position. I am being personally trained by Emperor Dornkirk himself and there are already rumors that I am to become the next Strategos. I never wanted power and I still don't. All I wanted - all I want is... It doesn't even matter. My wishes never come true.

I pick up the ink bottle and peer into it. Only a fourth of the bottle was not spilled. How wonderful. I can only hope that the meeting with the Emperor goes better than the rest of my evening has so far. Quickly, I give the reports I must hand in a final check and sign my name on the first and final pages. Even after all this time I still almost write my full name automatically. Or rather, what used to be my full name. It's just Folken now. Half a name for half a person. This is who I am and who I must be. I will gain nothing by hiding in here for the rest of my life. _You must react! Change or die!_ I can still hear my father's words echo inside my head. Adapt or perish. Of course, he was talking about sword fighting at the time, but I find it more applicable now than I did then. I understand it better as well.

I cap the ink and place it away on the shelf. My pen and the paper that was not ruined follow it. As I reach a hand towards the door, I give a quick glance around the room. I should have placed the cloth over the mirror better for it's already coming loose and has slipped half off. It seems as if there should be some metaphor attached to that, but I can't think of one. I leave it be and pause only to extinguish the lamp as I leave.

_Fin_

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